Out To Lunch
by writeswithfeatherquills
Summary: In which pasta is eaten, realizations are had, street performers play situationally-appropriate songs, and a Palace finds itself in need of renovations. Johnlock one-shot.


**A/N: this has been sitting on my phone for far too long, so I polished it up and put it up here. Not as long as my usual stuff, I know, but at least it's something. Work is being done on my other stories, I promise, but for now, have some of…whatever this is.**

John led Sherlock down the street, glancing up at the various brightly colored awnings over the shops as they went. John had heard amazing reviews about this one cafe near Baker Street, so he was dragging Sherlock there for lunch after solving a case. Sherlock's eating habits had improved some, according to John, although he wasn't sure how true that was. Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn't. He certainly wasn't eating more just for John, obviously. Although maybe sometimes he did eat when John seemed particularly concerned, but only because John made for better conversation when he wasn't always trying to drop not-so-subtle hints about Sherlock needing to eat. But that was all.

As they walked down the street, the soft strumming of a guitar could be heard, and Sherlock glanced around, finding the source of the music across the street, a woman leaning against a building and singing with a grin on her face as crowds of people walked by. Sherlock realized after a moment that she was a member of his homeless network and gave her a short nod. She grinned slightly at him, never breaking off the song, a gentle melody with plinking notes. Her voice was equal parts light and confident, and she never needed to glance down at her guitar, instead watching the people passing by. Most of them never even looked at her.

" _And we lie drunkenly, just staring at the stars._

 _Remember when they were in reach?_

 _And all the teachers used to teach,_

 _We could do anything if we put our minds to it._

 _We put our minds to it all, but disappointment crashed the ball,_

 _We coulda done anything,_

 _We just never quite knew it, so..._

 _Tie your scarf on, tie,_

 _It's to be a cold night._

 _Tie your scarf on, tie,_

 _It's to be a cold night..."_

The song was actually rather good, for being played on the street with an old acoustic guitar, and Sherlock found himself listening intently and not realizing where he was going until he crashed into John.

"Sorry" he said, and John laughed.

"S'all right. Anyhow, this is it. I heard it's phenomenal."

"Yes, you've mentioned that."

John grinned, and they went inside. The restaurant was small, and looked like it would only sit about twenty people, but it was cheery on the inside, with pale yellow walls and white furniture. There were various old photographs on the wall, and some old documents too time-worn and faded to read. All in all, not someplace Sherlock would've picked. But they sat down anyways, and a waitress brought them menus. John glanced over his, and made various comments about which foods had been recommended, finally settling on some shrimp pasta dish.

"So, are you actually going to eat?" John asked idly.

"Yes."

"Good." John smiled, and Sherlock grinned back, then lowered his eyes and stared at the menu, tapping his fingers on the table. When the waitress came back, he and John ordered, and then left again, and John leaned back in his chair.

"So, another classic case of the-butler-did-it." He said finally, referring to the case they had just solved.

"I would hardly call it classic, butlers usually pass the job down through the family, so they're relatively loyal to whatever family they serve. Usually the other staff are the ones to do the crime. Cooks and maids and such."

John smiled and shook his head.

"Well yeah, but this time the butler did do it, then try to blame someone else, Clue-style." He grinned to himself, but Sherlock frowned and tilted his head in confusion.

"Clue-style."

"Yeah, like the movie...? Never mind." Sherlock shrugged and moved on.

"Well, it was a poorly done robbery. He should have known that the maid was doing her rounds then. If he had merely done it earlier, the petty theft need never have escalated into murder."

"Hmm, but then you'd be out a job." John replied, and Sherlock grinned.

"I'm sure the yard would find something too difficult for their limited intelligence soon enough." He said loftily, and John just chuckled, shaking his head again. Then the waitress brought out their food, and they began to eat. They didn't say anything for a while, but eventually John broke the silence.

"This is amazing." His eyes were wide and sparkling, and Sherlock couldn't help but grin at John, getting so excited over something as trivial as food.

Outside the window they sat next to, the clouds parted slightly, and the room lightened as the sun came out, shining down on London in a rare moment of warmth. And then something peculiar happened. A particularly strong beam of sunlight came through the window and struck John's hair in such a way that his entire head seemed to glow. The blonde and silver strands reflected the light all around the room, making the cheery restaurant seem dim in comparison. Sherlock thought absently that it looked rather like a halo, and found himself wanting desperately, absurdly, to reach out and stroke John's hair, just to see if it felt as soft and wonderful as it looked. His hand twitched slightly under the table, but he luckily had the presence of mind to clench it into a fist and remain still. Very still, in fact. He didn't move a muscle as he sat there, spellbound, and quite unable to look away. And when John looked up, his dark blue eyes shining with the last dregs of the case and apparently some very good pasta, Sherlock couldn't help but think that he looked rather beautiful. A surge of affection wound it's way through Sherlock's chest, filling every nook and cranny until he was thoughtless with it, drunk on the warmth and happiness that John somehow allowed to exist in his cold world. This feeling was entirely new to him, and on some level he was slightly concerned by it, but it felt so _good_ that that concern was easily cast aside and forgotten. He would have been content to just sit there, staring at John forever, but then John spoke, the sun retreated back behind the clouds, and the moment was gone.

"You okay, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked twice, and rather abruptly snapped himself out of it.

"Hm? Yes, fine." He took another bite of his food, but it tasted like sand. His heart was beating at twice its normal speed, and a light blush started to creep up his neck. What the hell had just happened to him? John had just been sitting there, wreathed in golden sunlight, so peaceful and happy, and suddenly nothing else seemed to matter... Dear lord, it sounded like bad poetry! And yet, Sherlock had been completely captivated. He paled as he remembered that sudden impulse to actually _stroke John's hair_ -Jesus, that had to cross some sort of boundary, didn't it?

...Didn't it?

Sherlock froze, the sudden implications dropping on him like a bag of bricks.

No, no, no, no. This was not good. No. This was... _No_.

He couldn't have this. He was Sherlock Holmes! He didn't do sentiment. So he grabbed those frightening thoughts, looking for a room to lock them away in, deep within his mind palace. He walked down a corridor, but found it was already full, every room had its door locked and marked with bright yellow spray paint that warned of the dangerous sentiment already shut away inside, to be ignored until it went away entirely and the room became usable again. He hadn't thought there were that many...He shouldn't have that many! He didn't think he had had enough sentimental thoughts to warrant an entire corridor of marked doors. But he did, so he tried another corridor, and another, and with mounting horror, realized they were all the same. There were no open doors left, nothing but closed door after closed door with that same bright, spray painted warning.

He was...out of rooms.

With panic crawling up his throat, he ran down hallways, searched back staircases and broom closets with wild desperation, but to no avail. He finally stopped, panting, and wondered with great fear when he had started being so sentimental that his mind palace couldn't hold it all.

 _When John came..._ the walls whispered.

 _When you realized you didn't have to be alone…_

" _Alone protects me!"_ He screamed, but the walls didn't care. The doors still stood there, the yellow spray paint warnings blinded him.

 _When John didn't leave..._ they chorused.

With detached dread, he watched as doors began to open, and that horrible sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach was relived, back John leaving was a legitimate worry. And then that swooping joy that he had immediately classified as dangerous and locked away, when the doctor stayed.

...No, that was, that was only... He searched for some excuse, anything but that. He was Sherlock Holmes! He was a sociopath, for god's sake, he didn't do emotions! This couldn't happen, not to him!

 _Sociopath..._ the walls echoed mockingly.

More doors tried to open, but he ran to each in turn, leaning against them with all his weight, trying to keep them closed. He had been cold and aloof and friendless his entire life, and that was how he was going to stay! Alone protects me! He repeated it, like a mantra. Alone protects me! _Alone protects me!_

And then the walls decided that they had had enough.

 _ **YOU ARE NOT ALONE ANYMORE!**_

The roar shook the entire Palace, and plaster dust rained from the ceiling, cracks appeared on the walls, and the floor started to shake violently, causing him to stumble, hideously off-balance. Added to this chaos was the awful din of every single door bursting open at once. Hinges flew through the air like bullets, brass doorknobs fell to the ground with thuds like bass drums, and chaos reigned in his once orderly mind palace. The contents of those rooms came flooding out like avalanches, memories of the panic and doubt and fear and warmth and happiness and affection attacking him mercilessly, forcing him to acknowledge their existence, accept their reality.

Within the space of a minute, he relived every last feeling and thought and impulse he had locked away, descending on him like a million angry vultures. He held out as long as he could, shutting his eyes tight and trying to wade through the sea of swirling memories, trying to get away. But they were everywhere, unavoidable and unrelenting. He opened his mouth to shout, to deny them, but his throat closed up, and no words would come. He could only sit and _feel_ , every last emotion that John had dragged into his life, somehow without him ever noticing until it was far, far too late.

 _The gentle smile that only Sherlock ever saw, and the accompanying warmth that spread through his chest at the sight of it, the way his breath would catch and any attempts at speaking would become futile…_

 _The bubbling laughter filling the air as they collapsed together after a case, giggling like schoolgirls, united in their love of the chase..._

 _The stern insistence that Sherlock take care of himself, that had started as soon as John had moved in and hadn't let up yet-the feeling of someone actually caring about him beyond his usefulness, a novelty he hadn't experienced since childhood..._

 _The steadiness of John's compact form as he stared down his gun, breathing even, an air of total calm around him in the midst of an intense and overwhelming situation, his stillness grounding Sherlock enough to think through the problem with speed and efficiency he had never been capable of before..._

 _The soft London sun hitting his hair in a small cafe and lighting up the entire rom in a radiant glow, highlighting the kindness of his face, the vivid, curious blue of his eyes, the genuineness of his smile._

Finally, drowning in intense, smothering emotion, Sherlock finally gave in, dread sinking in his stomach, and accepted it.

Outside his head, John was calling his name, looking worried. His fork had long since fallen to the floor, and outside the cafe, the woman on the street was still singing, though she had moved on to a new song.

" _I know exactly what I want and who I want to be,_

 _I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine._

 _I'm now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy—Oh!_

 _Oh no!_

 _Oh no!_

 _Oh no!_

 _Oh..."_

But none of that mattered because behind those pale eyes, Sherlock was finally staring down the most terrifying realization of his life.

He loved John Watson.

...And he still wanted to touch his damn hair.

 **A/N: Please rate, comment, kudos, etc. you know the drill. I love hearing your opinions on my work!**


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